


The Sun Rises on You

by starstruck1986



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-17
Updated: 2014-11-17
Packaged: 2018-02-25 19:13:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2633069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starstruck1986/pseuds/starstruck1986
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ron wakes up on the first day of November hungover and nauseous, but it doesn't detract from one of his favourite sights in the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sun Rises on You

Written for the HP_Reunion over on Livejournal - joining the HMS Best Mates!

 

**The Sun Rises on You**

  
  
I don't think he knows how much I watch him when he sleeps. He'd probably freak out. I'd freak out if I found out someone spent a good deal of time gawping at me whilst I snored, farted and touched myself in my sleep.  
  
(Harry does all of these things, but I can't talk – pot, kettle, black and all that.)  
  
It's slightly less frightening now that something's actually going on between us though. I've watched Harry sleep for a good few years. The last ones at school were the worst, when he tossed and turned in his bed, sweaty and terrified, and all I could do was make fists out of my bed covers because I couldn't stop his hurt. Camping Harry was mostly too shattered to do anything but conk out in his bunk and maybe mutter a few words. After the war, when the trauma played havoc with his brain and he screamed harder and louder and lashed out with his magic and his body – that was hard, too, but different.  
  
Because somewhere along the way, something had shifted between us. When he woke up in the night, crying his eyes out and saw me crying along with him, it didn't matter that it was weird or fucked up that I reached for him and he reached for me. Somewhere, somehow, we started to take more comfort in one another than either of us had allowed before.  
  
The Harry I watch now is peaceful and there are no longer boundaries between us. We share this bed, this room, this huge old pit of a house. (It's not really a pit any more... Harry's restored it to glory in Sirius' memory.) We share everything in our lives.  
  
And I get to see _this._  
  
We were up late last night. Somewhere in the maze of this house are several of our friends and family, presumably harbouring the same calibre of hangover as me. I know I should get up and find a potion to make it better, but I honestly can't be arsed. I don't want to move, or even breathe too loudly, if it wakes him up and takes this sight away.  
  
Autumn is ticking by too fast. Soon it'll be Christmas. Our fourth together as it happens. Last night we held our annual Halloween party, hence the foggy thumping heads. And the fact that Harry's still asleep at this hour. He only sleeps this late when he's been totally wankered the night before, and that's a pretty accurate description of him last night. It always goes downhill after someone cracks out the Muggle Tequila and makes him dance. I sat to one side and watched him, pissed as a newt, enjoying himself. I don't dance. Or, I do, it's just I really rather wouldn't. I look like a twat.  
  
“Bollocks.” I hiss the word bitterly. I really need a piss and the toilet seems so far away. And I would have to leave him.  
  
He's got his glasses on. I peer over to the other side of the bed and see a newspaper which has just fallen out of his reach. Kreacher leaves it on the bedside table for him every morning. I think the war has etched the need to reach for the newspaper on waking into Harry's head for life. I don't blame him, but these days you're more likely to read about falling cauldron sales and Quidditch scandals on the front pages than multiple deaths. He was sober enough to get his glasses on, but clearly didn't get any further. He's somehow managed to trap the sheets around his body and his legs are covered by the patchwork quilt my mum made us. No wonder the cold woke me up – that bugger's taken all the covers. (All's fair in love, war and bedding, mind.)  
  
But through the crack in the curtains, which we have to leave slightly open because neither of us is too fond of the dark – even now, weak sunlight slices through the room and lights him up. His hair is beyond comprehension. It's everywhere. Several strands flutter in his breath but he's so dead to the world nothing irritates him.  
  
He's warm, he's content, he is safe.  
  
Part of me thought that neither he nor I would live to see peaceful sleep. He wasn't even eighteen when he took on the weight of needing to die to save his world, his loved ones. What was I? Some idiotic, mediocre sidekick compared to him. I'm still convinced there would be little praise for me if not for him. Who wants me and me alone?  
  
Nobody. Apart from him. And that makes everything else okay. I've let go of the dream of ever besting my brothers and sister at anything. I've let go of the constant desire to be a brilliant man. I will never be that in my own mind. I will never allow my brain to laud itself. It is not great, and neither am I, but whatever there is that attracts Harry I will accept and keep and cling to.  
  
The sunlight grows stronger as the sun rises higher. It's nice to see the light, it seemed to rain for the whole of October – one long grey slog of cold rain and soggy clothes.  
  
My eyes begin to sting and my head throbs harder. Trust our weather to do this now, to perk up when we've emptied our entire drinks cabinet into our livers. _Bastard._  
  
“Wha'?” Harry's question makes me jump and I hurt my neck with the speed I turn to look at him.  
  
He's blinking in the sunlight too, looking confused.  
  
“Who's a bastard?” he asks, his words lazy and sleep-slurred.  
“The sun,” I answer weakly and shrug.  
“So bright.”  
“It tends to be, it's the sun.”  
“Don't be a cock.”  
  
Harry yawns into the air and shivers. He pulls up the quilt over himself and then holds one side open for me. I go without hesitation. I still need the loo but that can wait. I fumble my way under the sheets and cuddle into his side. He smells like the sort of drunk who rolls into work still a tiny bit shitfaced the morning after a real bender. I can't smell much better.  
  
“Any noise from anyone?” Harry murmurs into my cheek. He doesn't let me answer, kissing me good morning with a lot of tongue and breath so strong that it feels like I could get drunk all over again. I kiss back, because I'm not stupid, and ignore all my senses except the ones which make this good.  
  
I feel more alive as he continues; energy sparks into me as he runs his hands down my back and lets them settle over a bum cheek apiece. I'm hard already. He never has to do much to entice me. I rock my hips against whichever part of him is closest and he laughs.  
  
“We have to play the good hosts,” he whispers playfully, negating his words by rutting back at me. “Should make breakfast. Make sure they all go on their way safely. Make sure they're all still breathing, actually.”  
“Fuck them,” I breathe myself, getting a particularly good thrust in against his hip. “Let them make their own toast and coffee and stay here with me.”  
  
I kiss him then. He doesn't protest but his glasses get in the way. I'm not at my most suave this early in the morning, it has to be said. I'm an over-eager lover at the best of times. Finesse isn't a strong point. I knock them off his nose and he winces in pain.  
  
“Ron, we can't,” he says finally, his words full of regret. “We promised we'd help Hannah and Neville move in.”  
“I take it back,” I moan and roll onto my back. “They can fuck off and lift things themselves. I refuse to leave this bed.”  
  
My cock pokes me in the belly and I groan again. Harry sighs.  
  
“How much do you think it'd actually take to stop you getting a hard-on the morning after?” he laughs, sits up and looks down at me.  
“Clearly more than last night.”  
“You were drinking cooking sherry at one point. When everything else was gone.”  
  
My belly gives a sudden clench and a wave of nausea rolls over me. It lasts long enough to ensure that my erection is no more. I hate being sick. It must show in my expression.  
  
“Sorry.” Harry makes a face.  
  
I swear at him with my fingers and he laughs again.  
  
“Stay here.” Harry leans over and kisses me on the mouth. “I'll be back with drugs and tea. We go from there.”  
“Have I ever told you that I love you?” I ask gratefully.  
“Mm-hm.”  
“Well, that. Again.”  
  
Another kiss, soft and loving now as opposed to randy and hungover.  
  
“I'll be back in a bit.” Harry eases off the bed. I hear him looking for something to wear.  
“Hang on,” I mutter, as guilt seizes me and I drag myself upright. I find my dressing gown and wriggle into it. Harry stares at me as if he's seeing a miracle.  
  
“I can't be doing with the 'kept man' jokes,” I explain, pulling open the bedroom door.  
  
My brothers take the piss at how often Harry looks after me and how I'm often content to let him.  
  
He links our hands together and squeezes. I squeeze back.  
  
This life, this life is good. So fucking good.  
  
 _-fin-_


End file.
